


The Interview

by Anonymous



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: AU where the distortion willingly chooses to unbecome, Dream Sequence, Gen, It/Its Pronouns For Michael | The Distortion (The Magnus Archives), Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Panic Attacks, unreality, vague mentions of self harm, very vague though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Distortion hurt. And it made others hurt. And it didn't like it. So it stopped. Unfortunately, things like these are often a two-way exchange, and Michael Shelley was nothing more than a bartering chip, forced to deal with the aftermath.The Distortion, though...It enjoys its last words, and it intends to do so with the identity that plagued its existence. What better way to visit than an unwelcome stay in one's dream?
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion & Michael Shelley
Kudos: 6
Collections: Anonymous





	The Interview

**Author's Note:**

> This is old. Like half a year old. I found it in my google docs and decided I liked it enough to try posting it, and maybe other people would like it too. It comes from a kind of oddly specific AU, but hopefully the summary provides enough context! I think it's still enjoyable either way. 
> 
> If you enjoy, I'd love it if you dropped a comment!!

Michael didn’t have a clue about how he let himself sleep in so late, but he didn’t have the time to dwell on that fact, either. The sun was almost overhead, and if he were to guess, he was supposed to be clocked in nearly two hours ago. If he was lucky, no one would point this out to him as he breezed through the front doors of The Magnus Institute with barely a hello to the new secretary. Past the hall, down the stairs, it felt like time kept draining away. How could he have forgotten where he put his scarf this morning? He always double checked to hang it right by the door.

Michael grabs his card and punches in once he’s just outside the archives. The slow computer stalls for what felt like minutes before displaying the time. 8:02AM. Oh. He...wasn’t late at all. With a sigh of relief, Michael swings the door open and is met with energy he didn’t expect this early in the morning. Emma is at her desk, clacking away at the computer's keyboard without even looking at the screen. Martin stands over her, wringing his fingers nervously as he chatted about something Michael couldn’t make out. From the looks of things, Emma couldn’t either, as she barely pays any attention to the man. Across from her desk sits Michael’s own, and there must have been some construction or...something over the weekend, as his notes and computer are veiled in a layer of dust. He’s about to make his way over to tidy up when a warm hand on his forearm stops him.

“Morning, Michael.” Gerry says, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder. Just like that, any remnants of stress from earlier melts away, and Michael gives his boyfriend a gentle smile.

“Thought I was going to be late today...I don’t know how time got away.”

“It happens,” Gerry answers with a small shrug. “You ought to be used to it.” He steps away from Michael and starts walking forward, eyes focused on the file in his hands. “By the way,” he mentions, giving Michael a quick glance before returning his focus to the paper. “Jon wanted to see you? I think he mentioned something about a report? Didn’t seem too important.” Gerry looks up again and flashes Michael one of his smiles. Slight, barely there, but somehow filled with fondness. “Don’t look so nervous, it’s fine.”

Michael chuckles, cheeks heating up at the gentle tease. He’s about to respond, but Gerry’s already disappeared, probably to the back of the archives to do more heavy research. Bless him, Michael thinks. It was hard to have the patience to try to read those ancient manuscripts.

“Morning, Emma.” He chirps once his initial task of clearing his desk comes back to mind. A box of tissues sits right at the edge, and while it isn’t perfect, it will do the job better than nothing. Emma gives him a quick hum of acknowledgement, and when Michael looks up, he sees that Martin has also disappeared somewhere. She continues typing onto her computer, the blue glow of the light illuminating her face. Michael clears his throat. “Ah, h-had a good weekend? I guess some things got shifted around in here a bit..” He tries again, wiping down his desk and grimacing slightly at the grey clumps of dust he picked up.

“Yes, seems like it.” She answers, pausing her typing to look over at him with a polite smile. “And you? How are things now?”

“Oh! Uh, you know, they’re good, umm..” Michael crumples up the tissues and tosses them into the bin beside his desk before sitting down. His legs fold a little awkwardly underneath the desk, but he has gotten used to it. He isn’t going to ask for new furniture just because he’s a little taller than average! “I had some old friends visit. From around college, I think.”

“You think?” Emma asks, tilting her head, her smile still present.

“Well, uh, hard to remember quite when we met, is all. Happened so long ago, all sort of blurs together!” Michael chuckles and picks up a stack of papers, tapping them once to straighten them out.

“I’m sure that’s nice. You did hear about what Jon said, right?”

“About him needing me? Yes, G-Gerard mentioned that. I was just collecting my bearings. I don’t think it’s too urgent?”

Emma shrugs. “You might want to go check, regardless.” With a slight raise of her eyebrows, she returns to her work, and Michael pauses briefly before standing up. Yes, she was right. Emma had been working in the archives longer than he had, and probably knew more about how things were run than Gerry did. Oh god, this wasn’t too urgent, was it? On the day he was running late, too!

A new surge of anxiety fills Michael’s chest and he quickly walks down the short hall to Jon’s office. The window of the glass is frosted, but the lights are bright enough to make out the general shapes inside. It doesn’t do anything to comfort him. With a deep breath, Michael raps his knuckles on the door twice before opening it slowly, just in case Jon was in the middle of a recording. It creaks on its hinges.

“Excuse me,” Michael starts softly, after registering that Jon was relatively free. The other was packing up cardboard boxes with what looked to be general office supplies. “Some of the other assistants mentioned you wanted to see me..?”

“There you are, Michael.” Jon sighs, and the tired tone of his voice doesn’t relax Michael at all. Head Archivist was a taxing job, and the last thing Michael needed to be was a burden. “Yes, as I’m sure you know, we’re in the process of hiring a new assistant after Sasha’s absence. We have an applicant waiting in the statement office. I was hoping you could conduct the interview?” Jon briskly turns from his desk and hands Michael a small stack of papers held together with a paperclip. He takes them and looks at its contents. Questions, forms, contact information…

“Oh, o-of course! Um...anything I should, uh, I should look for?”

“Use your best judgement. James will have the final say. All we really need is for someone to record their responses and,” Jon pauses for a moment, as if trying to find the words to say, “The others in the archive don’t have the interpersonal skills that you do.”

Michael isn’t sure how to take that compliment, but he does anyway. “Oh, right. Um, sure thing. I’ll just be on my way. Statement room, you said?”

“Yes. They’ve been there for a while now, I believe.”

“Christ, all right. Thank you.”

With a quick nod, Michael spins around and leaves the office, shutting the door quietly behind him. Great. Not only did he keep Jon waiting, but he kept this stranger waiting too! If there was one thing Michael hated, it was being an inconvenience. He was going to have to put a damn tracking tag on his scarf for the next few months to prevent something like this from happening again.

The statement room is just the bit down from Jon’s office. It was used for the occasional live-statement, or if statement givers preferred some solitude as they wrote. It was small and had no windows, save from the thin one on the door. Just like the one leading to Jon’s office, the glass is frosted with a chiseled pattern, making it impossible to see through to the other side. Michael busies himself with becoming familiar with the interview questions as he walks and mentally prepares a short introduction for the potential employee. If things aligned right, this could be a new coworker. Talk about poor first impressions!

He steps into the room without knocking, and finds his way to the table without looking up at the papers in his hands. “I am so sorry for the wait,” Michael starts, chuckling softly to try to relieve the tension that a long delay might have caused. He sits down across from the applicant. “Running behind on some things, but I’m sure this won’t take-” His words cut off when he finally looks up.  
There, sitting across from him, is him.

Michael’s mouth goes completely dry. Across the table, his face just smiles widely, tilting his head ever so slightly in a way that suggested amusement. He wears similar clothes, but not the same, as if he tried to match the outfit but could only make do with what he already had. His hair is unruly as well. Bright blonde hair that almost looks like it had been dyed with a jarring yellow. It curls tightly around itself, cascading down his back and over his shoulders, framing his round face and that wide smile.  
Michael knew what he was.

“ _Aren’t you going to ask me questions?_ ” His voice asks him, the question punctuated with a delighted giggle. The sound of the laugh brings a burning bile to Michael’s throat. Not out of hatred, but out of fear. Fear that he’s trapped. That he’s been caught. That nothing outside the four walls of this room even exist. But The Distortion dressed in his identity makes no move other than a patient nod. Michael has no choice in the matter. He looks down at the paper in front of him and opens his mouth to speak. Instead, nothing comes out, no matter how hard he tries.

“ _Oh, come on. I just heard you. Try again._ ” The body across from him scolds. Michael takes a deep breath before moving to grip the paper in his hands.  
“What are you doing-” His voice abruptly cuts out before he can finish the rest of the question, and no matter how hard he tries to continue, his mind just can’t form the words. It doesn’t matter, though. The other isn’t really here for the questions.

“ _That’s an interesting one! What am I doing…_ ” The Distortion sighs and leans back in the chair, glancing up at the ceiling as if it had to even think. “ _I was making the rounds, I suppose. Figured I’d stop by. See how things are going._ ” The sigh that leaves him doesn’t sound human. “ _I can’t say I’m surprised._ ”

Michael stares at The Distortion, and it stares back. The smile hasn’t left it’s face, but it softens a little as the initial excitement has worn off. Something inside Michael seems relieved by this. If haunting his life wasn’t as fun as The Spiral expected, maybe it would just leave him alone. That’s all Michael wanted anymore, to be left alone.

“ _Do you want me to continue?_ ” It asks. “ _I’m sorry if my responses aren’t that fleshed out. I’m not very good at talking about myself._ ” It throws its head back in a sharp laugh. This is a joke it had with itself, Michael can tell, and it is certainly at his expense. His hands grip the piece of paper tightly, crumpling it up and leaving nail indentations. Eventually, Michael tears his gaze away from the other and stares down at the words on the page, stubbornly determined to move on.

“How did you hear-” Again, all the concentration in the world isn’t enough to stop Michael’s voice from cutting out again, and the half-asked question elicits a hum from the thing across from him.

“ _You know what...No one’s asked me that yet. I’m surprised. I guess they didn’t care. It’s nice that you do._ ” The Distortion leans forward on the table and props it’s head onto its hand. The fingers are long and thin, but not unnaturally so. Just enough to make Michael squirm.  
“ _There was a statement. Written down by Phoebe Watterson during the spring of 1979._ ” By now, it is no longer looking at Michael as it speaks, but rather off to the side. “ _It took forever to find it. Of course, I did not know that it existed. That does make finding something lost challenging, if you doubt it’s very presence in the first place._

“ _She was an actress. Or, rather, a vocal coach for an actress. Apparently people like that find it necessary to narrate their whole resume to anyone who would listen, even if the audience is an empty page. But, I’m sure The Eye enjoyed it._ ” It chuckles humorlessly. “ _One of her clients, Amanda Birdwell, she had started to book singing lessons starting a few years prior. Now, for new students, Phoebe always did some form of preliminary evaluation. Scales, sight reading, range. Those sort of things. Have you ever played an instrument, Michael? No, you haven’t, but you can assume the sort of things she was talking about. And, well, this...Amanda, she was fine at it all. Nothing extraordinary, nothing unseen. But that’s how it always starts, isn’t it? You’ve worked here long enough to know._ ” It laughed again, and the sound makes Michael want to sink into his chair. “Or do you? You never knew much.”

Michael swallows thickly and glances back down to the piece of paper. The ink is smudged from tears that are not his.

“ _Sorry_ ,” A long hand reaches out and pushes down against Michael’s arm. “ _I wasn’t finished._ ” His head snaps up again to see that smile again.

“ _Anyway. Lessons continued for months, and the student was showing fine promise. Now, forgive me if I don’t have all the details, I was really starting to sear at this point._ ” The Distortion laughs again, almost fondly. “ _Eventually, when Amanda would sing, Phoebe would hear these absolutely discordant melodies... It was subtle, but her trained ear would pick them up easily. She had never heard of such a thing, and when she attempted to coach the ear-numbing noises out of her student, she was met with little success. Weeks passed, and the sounds that came through this woman’s throat rattled the walls beautifully. Layers of noise wrapping and twisting around itself as it wormed its way into the core of Phoebe Watterson and her mind. The prolonged exposure followed her. It followed her thoughts, it followed her dreams. Every week she would dread the hour spent with The Disharmonious, yet she could do nothing to stop herself from entering that room and being tormented by the acoustics to which she dedicated her life. The impossible melodies were too loud in her mind. She couldn’t sleep, she couldn’t think, she couldn’t live, all while the world around her passed by in blissful silence._ ” By now, The Distortion was leaning forward on its elbows, staring into Michael’s eyes as he told the story. It’s own eyes were wide with intensity, and the smile never faded.

“ _It became too much. Far too much. And one day in that spring of 1979, Phoebe vowed to end the source of her madness. She arrived at her studio with a knife and a hand eager to kill. And she did! Well, almost. When Amanda arrived, pleasant and bright, for her lesson, Phoebe did not hesitate. The knife made quick work of the woman’s throat, slicing her vocal cords with a sharp, tearing snap. And you know the funny thing? The Disharmonious did not even fight back...And that was wonderful. Soon, crashing back came licks of sanity, and Phoebe wondered if she had ever even heard the melody to begin with, as now, for the first time in months, the world was silent._  
“ _Phoebe Watterson was arrested shortly after giving her statement, and The Disharmonious died. What was left in her place, though, was Amanda Birdwell, who had never sung, had never taken lessons, had never pursued a career that used her voice. Which was probably good, as she no longer had a voice to even use if she wanted to._ ”

It ended it’s story with a grin and leaned back to settle in it’s chair. Michael’s throat burned. He swallows thickly and continues to to gaze over at The Distortion, afraid to break eye contact.  
“ _It was a fascinating statement, to say the least. Follow-ups inconclusive, highly speculative...It gave me the idea, though. And that’s all it really was. An idea. I was hesitant to search for more since, well, you understand, right?_ ”

Did he? He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to think about those branching spirals and fractals and parades of color, much less understand them. But the thoughts crept through piece by piece regardless. Memories of research that made his skin rip apart, the threat of knowledge tearing at his core. He remembered persistence in the face of pain, motivated by something that could never be certain. Suddenly, Michael’s arms began to tingle, and his hands dropped to scratch at them with his dull, rounded nails. They scratch and scratch and scratch, and the thing that was once him looked pleased.

“ _Good. You do._ ”

The silence that stretched between them felt like hours, and there wasn’t even a ticking of a clock to measure them. Michael didn’t want to stay. He didn’t want to be a tool for The Spiral again. He didn’t want anything that ever happened to him.  
“ _Is that all you needed from me?_ ”

The question finally pierces the silence, but Michael’s body is too frozen to move. Even the brisk nod that he wants so desperately to give is impossible. This isn’t fair. Why is he here? Why is he trapped? Why does the Spiral want to play with him so much?

“Why?” Michael manages to ask, voice small and scared. His eyes flick back up to the other, who seems surprised by the word.

“ _Oh...Something open ended, hm? Let me think…_ ” And it leans further back in it’s chair and does just that. Or at least, pretends to. The bouncing leg underneath the table and the shifting expressions on its face certainly give a convincing show. Michael squirms in his seat, his own leg bouncing anxiously as he waits.  
“ _I know you remember...pieces. I remembered pieces. So I think you…think._ ” It sighs, and for the first time, its smile falters for a moment, and its words get stuck in its mouth for a second’s hesitation. “ _I...did not like being you just as much as you did not like being me. I became you, in a way, just as much as the inverse was true._ ” It pauses for a moment, and the smile returns. Michael only now realizes that he was nodding along in understanding. “ _Good. So you know that we...I...couldn’t exist in the way that I...we...wanted to. That is why I wanted to fix things._ ”

It’s lying. Michael can feel it in the back of his mind as he listens to a flimsy answer devoid of detail. It’s lying by omission, but it’s lying.

“ _...Would you believe if I said that this was the most selfless thing I’ve ever done? You shouldn’t, but it’s true. I remember those moments, standing on the threshold to the place that I crawled back to, and I remember feeling joy. Joy that I could unravel, and joy that those around me would be as free as I now am. I think it’s empathy? I never really cared enough to learn._ ”

Michael takes in a deep breath through his nose and tries to ignore the sharp pangs both in the back of his mind and in his chest. The Distortion chuckles and nods its head, as if he had somehow contributed to the one sided conversation.

“ _Yes. That. I felt that all the time. And I knew it was only a fraction of what others felt, and I wanted it to stop. So I stopped. Hm. I suppose when I say it like that, the whole matter becomes rather simple! Funny… But it’s not. There’s always more to say..._ ” The Distortion turns its gaze downward, staring into the table and the stack of papers that laid on top. Michael knows that it isn’t near finished, that it can talk for hours if it wanted to. And it will. Talking in circles upon circles, saying things that Michael doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to know. He knew that he did awful things and that everyone hurt, and until this moment, he considered the ambiguity of his actions a burden. Now, he understands. It is a privilege, and the him across the table is about to tell him everything. It chuckles dully and brings a hand up to rest its cheek. The look it gives Michael after the prolonged moment makes his leg bounce hidden beneath the table, the dull creak of the old floorboard drowned out by the crawling panic in his mind. He was trapped. He is trapped. He doesn’t want to be here and the thing across from him knows that and only laughs.

Michael’s eyes screw shut, and only then does he realize how long they had been forced open. They sting slightly, and still he can’t hear anything except the echoed laugh around him. That, and the thoughts that race through his head, bouncing around in a voice that is his own, had to be his own. But the lilt and melody of its cadence doesn’t match, unless it does. It is his own voice. It is his own everything. Michael’s body shakes when he realizes that he is the one laughing. His own helpless giggles add to the noise that consumes the oxygen in the room until it feels like he can not breathe. His chest expands and his shoulders shake, just like it normally would, but no air comes through. Unless it does, and Michael has simply forgotten the feeling.  
There is a knock at the door, or maybe there has always been one? There is a voice, too. Probably his own. No, probably not. It is calling for him. It is asking him questions and reaching for the answers. Michael looks up through teary eyes and sees The Distortion stand, holding its arms behind its back. And through everything, he can make out its words.

“ _You should probably answer that. Before this all ends_?”


End file.
